


No One’s Boy

by ladygray99



Category: Perry Mason (TV 2020)
Genre: Author not used to writing dark, But more hurt than comfort, Drinking, Drunk Sex, F/M, Face Slapping, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of past Perry Mason/OMC, Perry is a Mess, Queer only once, Rough Sex, This is not a healty relationship, Yuletide 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28055553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladygray99/pseuds/ladygray99
Summary: Perry knows damn well she's not his girl.  They drink and fight too much for that.  But sometimes she makes coffee before he wakes up.  And sometimes she hums softly and strokes his head when everything hurts.  And some days that's enough to keep Perry going.
Relationships: Lupe Gibbs/Perry Mason
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	No One’s Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [delina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delina/gifts).



> The request was for dark fic. I'm not really experienced at writing dark but I gave it my best shot and figured a look at Perry and Lupe's messed up relationship was probably a good starting point.

“Open up papi.”

Perry parted his lips, still split and swollen from the day’s beating and let the last of the alcohol slide its way down his throat. The rough label on the bottle said whiskey but it was more likely corn moonshine with swamp water that would leave him half blind. He felt the press of glass on his lips and spread them wider. Lupe chuckled and ground herself down on him as she pressed the neck of the empty bottle past his lips clinking it against his teeth.

“Look at you suck on that. Maybe I should just roll you over and shove it up your ass instead.”

Perry grunted. Through the pain and drunken haze, he half wondered if she knew about the blue ticket. Jesus only knew just how much of his time spent with her he was slobbering drunk and willing to say anything. Not that they ever actually caught him with a queer. It was just easier to throw him out on a rumour than to court marshal him for what he’d actually done. That would have given him a chance to give evidence. The orders were bad, the masks didn’t fit right and didn’t work. The brass had never been to the front lines. They’d never seen a man coughing up his lungs while holding his guts in with his own hands. They didn’t know.

The slap jolted him out of the cold, mud filled trench that would forever exist in his mind and back into his bed.

“Hey, pay attention when you’re in me.”

He smiled around the neck of the bottle. She’d been kind enough to slap the cheek that wasn’t already black and blue. She pulled out the bottle and let it drop to the floor. He grabbed her hips and thrust up as best as he could. He knew she didn’t actually give a shit about his enthusiasm. She’d tie a pencil to his dick and just ride him until she was happy. He understood that. A warm body willing to give you ten minutes in the dark to forget mud and blood and cold, or whatever ghosts Lupe had in her own head.

She slapped him again, this time on the bruised cheek. He kicked up his legs and flipped her over. She let him. She had a swing like a whore house bouncer. Years of fighting gravity meant she could break him in half and they both knew it. She pulled her punches with him. Most of the time at least.

“You fuck me like a little bitch.” She was trying to goad him into fucking her harder and faster. He was pretty sure his pinkie was broken. Just a crack but it was hard to tell through the haze of cheap booze. He pulled himself together just enough to get to his knees and fling her ankles over his shoulders so he wouldn’t have to lean on his bruised hands. 

“That’s better,” she hissed as he ground in deep. “Think you can get the job done now?”

Of course, he could. He always could. That’s what he did, he got the job done.

~

The heat of steam on his nose and the smell of coffee woke him up. He didn’t open his eyes though. He knew better. He did an inventory first. Cheek still bruised. Slight throb in his pinkie so probably broken but nothing some sticks and tape wouldn’t fix. He’d taken a couple of good kicks the day before but he was pretty sure his ribs weren’t broken, for once. Head, hungover. Dick, fucked.

“Wakey, wakey papi.” 

Perry cracked one eye open to Pete’s grinning face then closed it again.

“Fuck off.”

“Your girl made coffee before she left.” He heard the coffee cup set down on the small bedside table.

“She’s not my girl,” Perry groaned trying to roll over while keeping his head attached. “She’d take off your balls if she heard you call her that.”

The sound of Lupe’s plane roaring to life did nothing for his headache and he actually pressed his hands to his ears. 

“Then what is she?”

“My neighbor who keeps threatening to buy my house and tear it down so she can have a second runway.”

“She also gets you drunk and fucks you.”

Perry blindly reached for his coffee which Pete was kind enough to slide towards his hand. “Doesn’t make her my girl.”

“Maybe you’re her boy. You certainly smell like it.”

Perry was not about to say that was probably close to the truth of the fucked-up relationship he had with Lupe. He screamed at her, she slapped him around, they fucked. Sometimes she made him coffee before she took to the skies. He guessed it was better than nothing. He sipped his coffee.

“Get your sorry ass up, wash your dick, E.B. has work for us.” 

“Fine, but I need you to splint my finger.”

~

Perry sipped the watery diner coffee. Lupe’s was better. Even when it was just down to day old grounds and chicory, her coffee was better. One time, not long after they had started fucking she had made him something cooking down flour with sugar and coffee until it was a hot paste. He’d had a cold and a raw throat. She’d spooned it into him while humming softly. A rare act of gentleness. 

“Are we sure that’s the guy?” Pete asked.

Perry looked over the top of his coffee as Pete peered around his newspaper. A large man a few booths over was talking softly to a woman with tightly coiled hair and enough makeup to make her look younger than she actually was, at least according to the information they’d been given.

“We could just go up and ask him. Actually, we need to go up and ask him so why don’t you just do it?”

“How about you do it?”

“No,” Perry objected. “Every single time we serve papers I get punched.”

“Not every time.”

“Every. Time. I’m still getting over yesterday’s beating.”

“You’re just being a little bitch, you know that right?”

Perry put down his coffee. “I’ll flip you for it.”

Pete sighed, put down his paper and pulled a dime from his pocket. “Little. Bitch.”

“Heads,” Perry snapped out while the dime spun in the air.

Pete snatched it from its spin, took a peek and swore. He got up and approached the man at the other booth. “Thomas Eugen Peterson?”

“Who wants to know?”

“That means yes. Thomas Eugen Peterson, you’ve been served.” Pete handed over the envelope.

“What the fuck does that mean?” At this point the whole diner was looking.

“Your wife is suing you for –” Pete didn’t even get out the reason. 

“Your married!” the woman at the booth shrieked.

“Baby it’s not like—” She picked up a glass of water and threw it in his face. Perry mused that she must love him a little since she didn’t grab the steaming coffee to throw.

Thomas Eugen Peterson roared up and turned to Pete who quickly began to back away towards Perry. “Hey man, I’m just doing my job.”

Peterson swung and Pete ducked. Every time they served papers Perry got punched. Every single time. And this time the guy had to be a southpaw. 

~

Perry laid on his bed a cool cloth on each cheek, and one across his eyes, since they now sported matching bruises only a day apart. he was amazed he still had all his teeth. He heard a knock and his door creaked open. He hadn’t locked it. He couldn’t be made to care if someone walked in and killed him right now. He just hurt too fucking much.

He heard steps approach his bedroom and someone sat on the edge of his bed. He half expected to feel the muzzle of a gun pressed to his forehead. God only knew how many people he’d pissed off enough to shoot him.

The cloth was slowly removed from his eyes and he blinked up at Lupe. “I can’t fuck you tonight. I think I have a broken rib.”

“Pobrecito. Sit up.”

Perry groaned and sat up. Lupe shifted up the bed and manhandled him around until his head was resting against her soft chest. She smelled like diesel and casino cigars. She pulled a cork from a bottle and he could instantly tell it was far better than whatever they had drunk the night before. She put the bottle to his lips and he took a small sip. 

“Pete says I’m your boy.”

She gently raked her fingers through his hair. In the distance he could hear the sound of her ground crew laughing while someone strummed one of the fat bellied Mexican guitars he’d seen. 

“You’re nobody’s boy. You’re too proud for that.”

Perry didn’t say anything. She was probably right. She was probably right about a lot of shit that was going to come back and bite him in the ass eventually. His pride, his farm, all of it. 

She hummed softly in counterpoint to the distant music. His hand throbbed, his face hurt, his ribs protested with every breath, but maybe if she gave him a little more of that booze and stroked his head, he just might manage to get some sleep.


End file.
